


The Gates of Istanbul

by pagan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Death Eaters, F/M, HP: EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan/pseuds/pagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Death Eater attack in Istanbul throws together two unlikely allies. As they unwillingly cooperate to reach safety, attraction and emotions flare up between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: What Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverandcrimson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverandcrimson/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine.  
> Author's Notes: A huge thank you goes out to dormiensa, who was my alpha, beta and omega for this story. Dors, I couldn't have written this without your unfailing support: thank you for your words of encouragement and for the desperately-needed hand-holding and naked Muse!Draco you kept sending my way :)
> 
> And to my recipient: I hope this story meets with your request.
> 
> The title was taken from the song by Loreena McKennitt of the same name.

Hermione could feel the cold water seeping into her trainers, soaking her socks and dampening the hem of her jeans as she silently waded through the murky waters that covered almost every square inch of the floor in the underground cavern.  The subdued lighting that she had excitedly exclaimed over earlier in the day, as she’d climbed down the steep, slightly slippery stone steps leading to Istanbul’s most famous ancient subterranean cistern, was now a collection of dim, barely-there lights shining fuzzily far behind her.

 

What had seemed so mysteriously romantic then was horribly eerie now. The platforms that had been built to allow visitors to tour parts of the cavernous chamber were equally far away. There were no other tourists where she was. The _drip-drip-drip_ of water reverberating through the vast, underground chamber seemed to echo her frantic heartbeat.

 

She was all alone in the dark.

 

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as the fear that had gripped her seemed to amplify when she felt something brush against her ankles under the water. She shivered involuntarily. _It’s just the fish, Hermione_ , she told herself sternly, trying not to squeal as another something— _the fish!_ —brushed past her right ankle again. She knew the waters of the cistern were home to many carps, having read about it in _Baedeker’s Guide to Istanbul_ and having seen the fish firsthand just over thirty minutes ago, swimming through the muddy waters of the cistern, their greyish-black bodies shimmering in the dim light, giving them a ghost-like appearance.

 

Her hand tightened on her wand as she resisted the urge to cast a quick _Lumos_ to see if her suspicions were correct. She didn’t dare: she’d already risked revealing herself when she’d cast a Silencing Charm as she’d slipped off the platform and into the water after the first few minutes of panic and chaos that had transformed the tranquil atmosphere of the Basilica Cistern into something decidedly sinister.

 

There was another movement under the water and Hermione shuddered as something that felt decidedly bigger than a carp swam past her ankles. Biting her lower lip to stop the involuntary sob that threatened to erupt from within her, she strode quickly to one of the marble columns supporting the great cistern and climbed onto its base—a square marble slab just barely big enough for her to stand on, if she angled her feet just _so_ —making sure to place it between herself and the dim lights of the platforms.

*

 

Draco crouched in the darkest shadows at the far northwest corner of the Basilica Cistern, trying to ignore the fact that he’d somehow leaned against a wet patch of the wall in his haste to hide himself. Self-preservation was one thing, but really, there was nothing more uncomfortable than the feeling of wet wool stuck to one’s arse. Already, a small drop of water was trickling down the curve of his bum, sliding down the back of his thigh, leaving behind a disconcertingly icy feel on his skin.

 

He shifted, silently shaking his left leg to get rid of that small droplet of water. Above and around him, he could hear the strain—the fear, the panic—in the voices of the Muggle tourists.

 

“Terrorists,” he heard one woman whisper shakily to another in a strong American accent as they crouched not five feet away from him. Both women were huddled against the four other tourists who, like him, had climbed down the short flight of stairs from the main platform to the floor of the cavern to get a better look at the mysterious Medusa columns. He resisted the urge to snort. Terrorists, indeed! Terrorists were nothing compared to who had actually appeared in one of Istanbul’s most famous tourist attractions.

 

He had Disillusioned himself the moment he’d seen the silver masks of the three black-robed figures appear on the main platform above the area where the two Medusa columns were situated. He’d been squatting down, partially hidden behind the first Medusa column, busily noting the intricacies of the carving on its marble base when what sounded like three distinct and loud cracks had jarred the otherwise hushed atmosphere of the cavern. A child had screamed and he’d heard someone shout something indistinct about guns.

 

But _his_ first thought had been that it sounded as if a wizard—or rather, three wizards—had Apparated right into a busy Muggle area. And the only wizards he’d ever known to do that were wizards who’d shown a decided lack of concern for the Statute of Secrecy, wizards who had followed the Dark Lord, wizards who were Death Eaters.

 

His suspicions were confirmed when he’d heard the shouts, seen flashes of red and green jets of light, and heard the horrified cries of the other tourists on the main platform. And when he’d finally caught sight of the black robes and silver masks, he had followed his immediate impulse to save his own skin by Disillusioning himself and quickly but quietly making his way into the dark shadows in an attempt to Apparate to safety.

 

He closed his eyes and tried to Apparate again, but to no avail. The Death Eaters had apparently set up an Anti-Disapparition Jinx, which meant they were looking specifically for a witch or a wizard.

 

He had a sinking feeling they were looking for him.  But he’d been so careful, travelling only to Muggle places, avoiding all the European wizarding areas until he ran out of potion supplies. Even then, he’d only visited apothecaries under a heavy glamour, making sure to hide his distinctive white-blond locks. The thought of what they’d do to him, the son of a traitor—if they actually found him—had him gulping nervously.

 

He took a deep breath. He needed to get out of this place, and to do that, he needed to find out if the entire cistern was blocked for Apparition. The underground cavern was huge; he doubted the Death Eaters would have accounted for all 105,000 square feet of it. What he needed to do was to set out farther from the main tourist platforms and hope to Merlin he could get out alive.

 

 

*

 

Hermione closed her eyes and tried again to Apparate out of the Basilica Cistern. She really didn’t relish the thought of setting out any farther from the lit areas of the cavern, but it seemed as if she would have no choice. Her gaze narrowed as she concentrated on recalling what she’d read about the cistern, but a flash of purplish-red light and a sharp, piercing scream that was cut-off midway caught her attention.

 

She shook her head and tried to force her nausea down.

 

_Oh, God, those poor people!_

 

The Death Eaters had somehow managed to attack Muggle Istanbul, of all places.

 

She’d known that quite a few had fled into Europe once it became known that Voldemort had fallen, but in the three years since the war had ended, nothing had ever been heard of them. Harry had told her the Aurors were still investigating the missing Death Eaters, but with the passage of time, the dangers these Dark wizards had posed seemed to have lessened. There were no Death Eater sightings or any reports of Dark wizard activity. Those who had fought on the side of good and survived the war had relaxed in their vigilance, seemingly content in having gotten rid of the evil in their world.

 

All had seemed safe.

 

_Seemed_ being the operative word.

 

And now, innocent Muggle tourists were bearing the brunt of their misplaced complacence. Another flash of light—this one a deep magenta—flared up on the platform and Hermione turned her gaze away, feeling sick.

 

Her instinctive reaction had been to draw her wand and engage with the three Death Eaters who had suddenly appeared onto the platform across from hers, but their sudden and incisive attack on helpless Muggles had her rethinking her strategy. These Death Eaters were seasoned fighters: each had, within minutes of Apparating onto the platform, managed to immobilise all the tourists within reach through several well-placed hexes and curses. A startled shout by a young man had had one of the black-robed figures firing a hex towards the former that had caused him to stiffen up and topple over the platform railing into the water below; an _Avada_ aimed at a security guard near the stairs and one at a thuggish-looking young man who had started towards them menacingly had managed to subdue the chaos that had threatened to erupt amongst the panicked throng.

 

Hermione had decided then that the best move was to escape and get help from outside, before the Death Eaters spotted her. Her attempt at Apparition had failed, and for her, the next best course of action had been to slip away unnoticed to where she _could_ Apparate.

 

A soft splash dragged her focus away from the platforms in the distance. She stilled and her grip on her wand tightened. That splash sounded a lot louder than what a fish would be capable of. _Oh, God, one of the Death Eaters._

But how was that possible?  She’d been keeping a watch on the platforms and was quite, quite sure there were still three Death Eaters on it.

 

The splash had sounded quite close, no more than five feet away, just two columns ahead of hers and definitely from the direction of the platforms.

 

She squinted and thought she caught a movement on the water. It was hard to tell, but she caught it again: a slight rippling that looked as though a person was slowing wading through.

It was _someone_ from the platforms.

 

Her heartbeat accelerated while her mind raced with possibilities: to stay still and hope to remain hidden or to subdue whoever it was as silently and effectively as she could possibly manage?

 

She peered towards the direction of the ripples; all had been silent after that one splash, and the semi-darkness of the cavern seemed to be both working in her favour and against her. She could not see who it was—definitely a witch or wizard who had Disillusioned himself—but was quite confident that if it was a Death Eater making his way towards her, _she_ would have the element of surprise on her side.

 

She tried to edge around the column she was clinging to without losing her balance so as to be less visible to whoever was coming her way. Mentally preparing herself to immobilise any unfriendly party, and hoping against hope that they were sufficiently far away from the platforms so that whatever happened next would not call any attention to her corner of the subterranean chamber, she slowly got down from the base of the column and assumed a defensive position: wand raised, knees slightly bent.

 

Her eyes were trained on the ripples in the water: whoever it was had started moving again.

 

 

*

 

Draco had managed to slip under the platforms and was making his way towards the other end of the cavern, far away from the Death Eaters. He waded through the waters of the cistern as silently as he could. However, when he felt something slither past his ankle, he couldn’t help but give a small jump. The consequent splash sounded horribly loud in his ears, and he immediately crouched behind one of the many marble columns, eyes and ears trained on the platforms for any indication that he’d been overheard by the Death Eaters. After what felt like an eternity, but was in actual fact only fifteen seconds, he relaxed and stood up, eager to resume his trek towards the end of the cavern.

 

From what he knew, the cisterns in Istanbul were fed by aqueducts, so there had to be openings or pipes in the walls to allow the water to enter this particular cistern.  He was hoping these openings or pipes were big enough to allow him to crawl through and, from there, make his way out of the Anti-Disapparition zone.

 

After throwing another quick glance at the direction from whence he’d come, Draco started moving again, heading towards what he believed to be the other end of the cavern.  He almost didn’t hear the softly whispered _Immobulus_ as he walked past yet another column and only managed to duck; he immediately lunged at his attacker by sheer instinctive reaction.

 

His shoulder met with what Draco figured to be his attacker’s mid-section—there was an “Oof”—before both of them rammed into the marble column behind Draco’s unknown assailant. The attacker was surprisingly light and had taken the brunt of the impact against the column. Draco could hear a hard exhalation of breath from above him. Encouraged by this fact, Draco knew that if he engaged more physical force, he might just be able to subdue his attacker.

 

He grabbed what he hoped was his attacker’s wand-hand, and slammed it against the hard surface of the marble column. He heard a sharp crack, accompanied by loud hiss of pain.

 

He could feel the attacker’s other hand scrabbling against his back, scratching against his jacket, trying to push him off.  Sensing that the attacker was bending his knees—in the hopes of getting enough leverage to either kick at him or buck him off—Draco pushed his shoulder even harder against the soft flesh of the attacker’s stomach, which caused the attacker to release a low, pained cry.  His left hand quickly reached across the chest of his assailant, intent on pressing his arm against the other’s neck to subdue him. To say he was surprised when his palm brushed across what felt like the soft, warm weight of a breast was putting it mildly. The feminine squeak that accompanied his unintentional groping confirmed his attacker was female.

 

Knowing witches could be just as dangerous as wizards—his Aunt Bella came to mind—Draco quickly pressed his advantage. His attacker seemed to have lost her wand, thank Merlin, or she would have employed it by now, Draco realized grimly as he managed to press his left hand hard against the unknown female’s throat.  He heard her give a gasp as he quickly straightened up and pressed the tip of his wand against her chest.

 

Wide eyes in a very familiar oval face framed by bushy hair met his.

 

“Granger?” he uttered in tones of complete shock.

 

“Wha—who are you?” she choked out.

 

Draco released his grip on her throat but kept his wand pressed against her. “ _Finite_ ,” he whispered, letting her see him.

 

Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing in indignation. “Malfoy,” she spat angrily. “What—what are you doing here? Let me—”

 

He cut her off by slapping his palm across her mouth. “Shut up,” he whispered savagely. “That stupid attack on me might have alerted the Death Eaters. You may have a death-wish, but I don’t.”

 

Her eyes flashed, and she wrenched at his hand, no doubt wanting to voice her protest; he leaned into her, effectively pressing her fully against the marble column. “Shut up,” he said again as he peered around the side of the column, trying to see if anyone on the platforms had heard their little scuffle. They were rather far away, so he couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t want to take any chances, and he definitely wasn’t going to just stick around until the Death Eaters left.

 

No, they were looking for someone, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be found.

 

Not by _them_.

 

*

 

“How do I know you’re not with them?” Hermione whispered waspishly as she felt the cool sensation of the Disillusionment charm wash over her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She was impressed by Malfoy’s command over non-verbal charms. He had to cast it for her as her wand had broken, thanks to his body-slamming her against the cold, sturdy, column. Her hand had hit back against that hard surface, and her wand had cleaved into two from the impact. The back of her hand still stung: no doubt, there would be bruises to show for it tomorrow.

 

“Are you stupid, Granger?” he asked casually, his tone belying his anger as he grabbed her upper arm tightly before casting the spell on himself. “Did I jar you too hard? Knock a few screws loose?”

 

Too late, Hermione recalled that Draco Malfoy had lost both his parents to the Death Eaters in the aftermath of the war. They had been executed by those still loyal to Voldemort for Narcissa Malfoy’s betrayal when she’d lied about Harry’s death in the Forbidden Forest. Draco himself had found their bodies, bloodied and battered, with Narcissa’s head almost completely severed from her body, impaled on two tall, wooden spikes erected in front of Malfoy Manor. She recalled he’d collapsed, and the Aurors had secreted him to a safe-house until his trial. Draco had been exonerated by the Wizengamot, though, and had left England shortly thereafter.

 

“They’re looking for you, aren’t they?” she pressed, ignoring his sarcastic remark. She winced slightly as his fingers bit into the flesh of her arm.

 

“Do you ever shut up?” He started pulling her towards the darkest end of the cistern. “Now,” he muttered, “where would the openings for the aqueduct be?”

 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “If you’ve read anything about the Basilica Cistern, you’ll know the Valens Aqueduct is no longer in use,” she said primly. “In fact, the aqueduct—”

 

Malfoy interrupted her with a rude snort. “And if you’d use your brains for more than just memorising facts, you’ll realise that I don’t intend on crawling my way through the Valens Aqueduct,” he said sarcastically. “I just need to get into one of the openings and see if I can Apparate out.”

 

She frowned at him, though thanks to her Disillusioned state, he would not be able to _appreciate_ it.  She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind when she felt a carp swim between her legs, brushing against the back of her knee. Was it just her, or was the water deeper at this end, she wondered nervously. The water level was now up to her knees.

 

A sudden huff of air next to her ear caused Hermione to shiver involuntarily, and she pulled back instinctively. “Granger,” Malfoy whispered, bringing his mouth close to her ear, “I think we’re being followed.”

 

_Oh, God_. Hermione resisted the urge to panic and swallowed hard. A quick glance over her shoulder showed no signs of anyone tailing them, but she quickly scanned the surface of the water for ripples. “I don’t see anything,” she whispered to Malfoy. More like she _couldn’t_ see anything: the lights from the platforms didn’t even pierce the darkness surrounding them.

 

He was too busy scanning the wall ahead of them to respond, though how he could discern anything clearly was beyond her. “I still can’t Apparate,” he grumbled softly. “We’ll have to find the openings and hope the Death Eaters didn’t jinx the entire area.” Muted light shone from the tip of his wand, but in the smothering darkness, Hermione thought it flashed as bright as a firework.

 

She grabbed his hand and put her body between his and the platforms. “Are you crazy?” she hissed and shook his hand irritably. “You said you thought someone was following us. Do you want to give away our position?”

 

She felt his muscles tense beneath her grip before he wrestled his hand away.

 

“What do you expect me to do, hmm? _Accio_ the openings to us? You may not have noticed this, Granger, but it’s pitch dark in here. So, unless you’ve got a better idea, I suggest you shut up and help me look.”

 

Resisting the urge to cause severe bodily harm to Malfoy, Hermione spared one last worried glance over her shoulder and moved to stand beside him as they surveyed the wall in front of them.

 

*

 

This wall was as wet and cold and slimy as the one he’d leaned against earlier. Draco wiped his palm in disgust against his trousers. The entire place was one big vat of water and dampness and obviously full of randy fish that kept bumping against his thighs.

 

Either that or Granger couldn’t keep her hands to herself. He snickered at that wayward thought and glanced at his companion. She was about two feet away from him to his left, both hands raised to the wall ahead of her, moving slowly and farther away from him as she methodically searched by touch for any openings or holes.

 

He’d already removed the Disillusionment charms from the both of them; it was easier to work together if they could see each other. The charm was useless in any event: it was so dark where they were that he had to squint and concentrate on where he knew she was standing to discern her shadowy outline.  He’d already extinguished the light from his wand. As loath as he was to admit it, Granger had a point. They’d decided to search by hand a small area of the wall ahead of them and only use his wand for light if they couldn’t find anything within a ten-foot stretch.

 

He rose up on his toes and felt the section of wall above him. He thought he could feel a draft and eagerly swept the tips of his fingers over what felt like a void in the wall. It was approximately eight feet above him and slightly to his right. He stepped back and quickly lit his wand to get a better look— _Yes, an opening_ , he thought triumphantly—when something grabbed his knee and he almost lost his footing.

 

His mind went blank, followed furiously by the thought that Granger must be grabbing him in order to get him to extinguish the light. He turned around and was about to snarl at Granger when he realised she was still to his left—and both her hands were still on the wall.

 

His eyes widened in shock and he whispered, “Granger?” Fear crept up his spine and he tried shaking off whatever it was that was now clinging to his leg like a limpet to rock. His fear must have been evident because she now looked at him worriedly.

 

“Malfoy?” Her voice was tentative and he noticed she didn’t move any closer to him.

 

“There’s something—” He choked as that _something_ — it felt like a hand—slid up his thigh and cupped him intimately.  It felt as if his heart had stopped beating and he heard Hermione gasp. A quick glance at her showed an expression of horror on her face. Terrified, but knowing he had no choice, he looked at his crotch and there it was: a pale hand with long fingers wrapped around his intimates.

 

Equal parts fear and anger rushed through him. Slightly panicked, he grabbed at the hand that cradled his testicles and shoved at it, intent on removing it from his person. What felt like icy fingers tightened painfully on his bollocks and he cried out in pain. That must have propelled Granger into action for she rushed at him and cried, “Your wand, Malfoy!”

 

He threw it at her, groaning when she fumbled and dropped his wand into the water. Ignoring her frantic “ _Accio_ Draco’s wand”, he concentrated on trying to loosen the iron grip on his crotch. Just as he managed to uncurl the icy-cold fingers, he felt another icy hand slowly rise up his other leg. Not caring about the consequences, he shouted frantically, “C’mon, Granger!”

 

He heard her cry out an incantation, and suddenly, a ring of fire flared up around her. Granger somehow managed to manipulate the flames around her, and with a sudden sharp movement, she directed a tongue of crackling flame towards him.

 

“Duck!” she cried, and he did so, feeling the heat of the flames whoosh past his head. A horrible sounding moan echoed in his ear and what smelt like burning flesh permeated his olfactory senses.  The hand between his legs suddenly felt bloody hot and he glanced down in horror as it started burning. With a loud yell and not caring if his own hands would be burnt, he managed to shove off what was holding him and stagger towards Granger.

 

“Inferi,” she gasped as another pale, bloodless creature rose up from the water.  Then, another.  She made that same looping movement over her head as she called out the incantation that brought forth a ring of fire around the two of them. Another two of the undead slowly rose from the water, their moans eerily echoing off the walls of the cistern.

 

“Granger,” he said hurriedly as he plucked at her sleeve, “there’s an opening to our right, about eight feet up. We need to get out of here before—” His words were cut off by a jet of red flashing towards them. They both ducked as the curse hit the wall behind them, causing a small explosion of brick and mortar.

 

“The Death Eaters!” Granger cried as she tried to maintain the circle of fire.

 

“We need to get to the openings. Do what you did before to the Inferi!” Malfoy shouted.

 

She nodded and within seconds, the flames coalesced into a great wall of fire that arced and raced across the water in the direction of the Inferi and the platforms.

 

Draco heard a shouted _Protego_ from the Death Eaters and knew it was now or never. He grabbed his wand from Granger and levitated her to the opening in the wall. As soon as he saw her fingers grip the opening, he turned his attention back to the threat from the Death Eaters. He shot off a _Reducto_ and an _Impedimenta_ to where he reckoned the Death Eaters were. A flash of green light— _Fuck!_ —was what he received in response and he swerved away in time.  He shot off two _Sectumsempra_ s in quick succession and was rewarded with a shout of pain from one of the Death Eaters. Emboldened, he again pointed his wand and shouted, “ _Confringo!_ ” The ensuing explosion caused the water and the muddy bottom of the cistern to spray upwards in a huge shower that scattered bits of dead fish, small stones and rocks, and dirty water everywhere.

 

It was a brilliant piece of diversion and he took that opportunity to glance up. Granger was still struggling to scramble towards the opening—her lower body was dangling out, her arse waving in mid-air—and with a muttered curse, he quickly levitated himself up to her. He grabbed her hips and gave a quick push: she was soon sent sprawling through the opening. Reaching his right hand for the opening, he felt her hands grab his, just as the bricks to the left of the opening shattered. He shot off another _Confringo_ and tried to pull himself up. Granger was now leaning out to grab a hold of his shoulders and he could see her straining to pull him up.

 

Another blast rocked the left side of the opening; brick and mortar exploded in a deafening crash. An excruciating pain up flared up his left side and he knew he’d been hit.

 

_Fuck!_

He threw up a Shield Charm clumsily, and in those few seconds of reprieve, Granger finally managed to haul him up.

 

He scrambled up and collapsed heavily on her, his arms and shoulders aching, a burning pain on his left side.

 

“Oh, God, you’re bleeding.”

 

He could feel the warmth of his blood pulsing out from his side as he lay on top of her, trying to catch his breath. He could feel her scrambling underneath him, trying to get him into an upright position.  He was unaccountably angry.

 

“Fuck. Just Apparate,” he wheezed, right before the world went black.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Basilica Cistern is a wonderfully eerie tourist attraction that one must visit if in Istanbul. As in the story, only part of it is open to the public, and the dim lighting, ghostly-looking carps and hushed atmosphere makes it all too believable that there might be something else in the waters.


	2. II: Strange Bedfellows

She had Apparated them to the Hagia Sophia: she recognised it from its massive dome, its beautiful frescoed walls, its numerous mosaics of saints, emperors, and empresses, and the Islamic calligraphy situated all around and above her.

 

The fact that they’d landed next to the huge marble lustration urn she’d admired earlier in the day rather confirmed it.

 

She didn’t know why she’d Apparated them here instead of automatically to her hotel room, but this was the last place she’d visited before crossing the _Meydani Sultanahmet_ to get to the Basilica Cistern. The old church’s presence had stuck in her mind— _a church: a place of refuge_ —and the frantic last moments in the cistern, with Draco bleeding in her arms and the imminent threat of capture, followed by a fate worse than death, had probably increased her desire to get them someplace safe.

 

She figured she was lucky that she didn’t drop them in the middle of the _meydani_ , a public square that was sure to be teeming with tourists and locals alike, no matter that it was probably late evening by now.

 

Thank goodness the Hagia Sophia was at least closed to tourists at this time of the day. There was no sign of any security guard either, for which she was thankful.  It was still well-lit though silent, save for Draco’s harsh breathing.

 

Draco’s groan of pain brought her mind back to his injuries. It wasn’t pretty: that last blast had caused bits of rock to embed themselves into Draco’s flesh. The worst of the damage seemed to be confined to his upper left arm and that area just below his armpit where the skin was broken and bloodied. His jacket and shirt were hopelessly torn, and she could discern angry red scratches and what looked to be a tremendous amount of bruising on the left side of his chest down to his waist. It was a miracle he’d manage to hold on long enough to the lip of the opening to have enabled her to haul him in.

 

She gripped his wand and ran a basic diagnostic spell she’d learnt during the war over his body, trying to assess if these were the full extent of his injuries. External injuries she could heal: dittany she had with her aplenty, but it was the internal injuries that a blast victim may suffer from that she was worried about. And that last blast had been awfully close. Her ears still had a slight ringing sound in them.

 

She breathed a sigh of relief when the spell showed no internal injuries, save for the bruises visible to the naked eye. Glancing around, she debated whether to Apparate them to her hotel room or to try and heal him here. There were no security guards around, but she didn’t want to push her luck. On the other hand, her hotel was in the wizarding section of Istanbul and, at this time, not the safest place for the both of them.

 

“Malfoy,” she said quietly. “Malfoy.” She gave him a gentle push. He winced in response and opened his eyes. “Draco, I’ll need to Apparate us somewhere to heal you.”

 

“My place,” he muttered. He tried reaching for the wand in her hand but gasped with pain instead.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re in no condition to Apparate us anywhere, Malfoy,” she said flatly. “Where’s your place?”

 

Malfoy struggled to sit up, but Hermione gently laid her hand on his chest, effectively stopping him. “Tell me,” she said implacably.

 

He sighed and stopped moving. “Kumkapi.  Do you know where it is?”

 

She didn’t. “Any landmarks?”

 

“It’s near the Column of Constantine, but it’s a long walk from there to Kumkapi.”

 

She knew where the ancient Roman column was: Cemberlitas Square. She had walked to it yesterday evening, keen to admire one of the lesser-known monuments of Roman art in Istanbul. The old column was blackened from a long-ago fire, the scorch marks still discernible at its base if one peered closely at it. She’d even taken a picture of it with her camera.

 

“We have no choice, do we?” She eyed him critically: white lines bracketed his mouth, and his face looked even paler than usual.  “I think I can stop the bleeding for now, but we’ll need to remove those bits and pieces of rock embedded in your flesh, and quickly, before the wound festers.”

 

*

 

Draco was feeling woozy from the blood loss, and the long walk down the Tiyatro Caddesi to the area known as Kumkapi was not helping any.

 

Granger had Apparated them to a dark alley behind a tram stop across from Cemberlitas Square. It was very near to the road leading to Kumkapi, and he was grateful she was observant enough to actually notice such an alley existed from her previous visit to the Column.

 

Leaning even heavier against her, they walked slowly. He was half a head taller than her, but she seemed to be coping well enough with him resting almost all his weight on her. He’d slung his right arm across her shoulder, and she was snugly pressed against his side, her left hand clutching the left side of his waist. Granger was undeniably warmer than he was—he was starting to shiver from his injuries—and he leaned even more against her, hoping to steal some of her body heat. To passers-by, they would either look like a couple having a romantic stroll or a girlfriend having to walk her drunken boyfriend back to their hotel. He rather suspected it was the latter, and as he listed heavily to his right, a sharp, stabbing pain shot up his left arm.

 

Tiyatro Caddesi was dimly lit: the storefronts all shuttered and dark, and the two Muggle hotels they’d passed earlier on were not bustling with business, thankfully. The street was clear, with just some cars parked on both sides. He had been tempted to get Granger to just walk in and book them a room at one of the hotels, but no matter how cleaned up he was, nothing could detract from the fact that he looked as if he’d been in a bad fight or, worse, an accident. No, it would have alerted the Muggle authorities.

 

Thank Merlin the walk to Kumkapi was downhill. It made the going faster.

 

Granger was glancing to her left and right, peering behind her and then straining to see the fork in the street about a mile ahead of them. The street was empty. “I have an idea,” she said as she tightened her hold on him and Apparated them to the fork. “Which way?” she asked.

 

He nodded to his left and they kept on moving: past a Muggle police station where a policeman with a gun stood guard outside (though he did not pay them much attention); more closed shops; a dodgy-looking hotel; until finally, they could hear strains of music and muted clapping from behind a row of shop-houses. The noise level increased the closer they got to the shop-houses, and with a turn to the right, they walked into what looked like the noisiest, liveliest tourist spot in Istanbul.

 

*

 

Hermione gaped at the number of restaurants clustered around the brightly-lit, tiny square. They all seemed to be packed with customers—tourists, to be exact. The restaurants even had tables out in the streets and on the square itself—and these were also fully occupied—almost to the railings that fenced off a small fountain set in the middle of the square. Waiters moved smoothly and efficiently around the many tables, serving and taking orders. Some of the restaurants even had entertainers: a woman in a belly-dancing costume was wriggling her hips saucily in one restaurant while a trio of guitar players entertained the patrons in another. Fairy-lights were strung up between lampposts. The result was a cacophony of sounds and light that was surprisingly pleasant. The aromas of grilled fish and sautéed prawns and fried squid drifted tantalisingly in the air around them, reminding Hermione that she was hungry.

 

A sharp tug on her hand brought her attention back to Draco.

 

“Hotel’s there.” He nodded at the neon-blue sign flashing above yet another restaurant: Kumkapi Hotel.

 

“Right.” She nodded and steered him past the bustling crowds and towards the restaurant in question. Draco seemed to be weakening by the minute, from the way he sagged against her as they made for the small entrance to his hotel.

 

They hurried as much as they could past the small reception area where a tall, Turkish man sat behind the desk, smiling at them. Hermione gave him a short nod as she dragged Draco towards what looked to be a small lift. “Which floor?” she whispered.

 

“Second. Room two-oh-three.”

 

Hermione jabbed at the lift button, trying to look nonchalant as Draco dropped his head on her shoulder, making sure the man didn’t get a good look at him. The man behind the reception desk started to frown the longer he stared at them, but the lift door chose at that exact moment to open.

 

“It’s all right, darling. No more _raki_ for you. Let’s sleep it off,” she said, loud enough for the man to overhear as she bundled Draco into the tiny lift. She didn’t know what possessed her to even say that, but she couldn’t be bothered as Draco slumped forward, his greater weight almost bringing her to his knees.

Wrapping both arms around him, she managed to steady them both before she fished his trouser pocket for the room key. She flushed as she felt the curve of his hipbone and then the firmness of his thigh. Bloody key was nowhere to be found!

 

“When you’re done copping a feel, the key’s in the other pocket, _darling_.” Amusement coloured his tone, causing Hermione to turn even redder.  She quickly slipped the key out, grateful for the sudden stopping of the lift and its door opening.  It took some manoeuvring and a lot of panting on her part, but they finally made it to Room 203.

 

Draco looked even worse as he leaned against the wall while she unlocked the door. The moment they both got into the room, she levitated him to the bed.

 

Gently, she peeled back the layers of clothing and started the gruesome task of slowly and painstakingly removing those bits of rock and sand embedded in his flesh. Draco flinched and hissed every time she dug too deep or probed too hard in her endeavour to ensure that all the little bits—and whatever else—were fully removed.

 

The sheets were soaked with sweat and blood by the time she was through. She cast a gentle Cleansing Charm on Draco before reaching into her coat pocket and extracting her purse. Her old beaded bag had finally given out on her, but Hermione had used the same Extendable Charm on her purse. She rummaged in it and found the bottle of dittany she always carried with her.

 

She unscrewed the cap and filled up the dropper, releasing several drops onto the first wound. There was a sizzling sound as liquid met flesh, and Draco cursed loudly as his flesh started knitting together. She repeated the process until all his wounds were closed, leaving only pale, pink patches of skin where the injuries originally were. Her fingers traced his skin, noting the firm smoothness of it while making sure the flesh joined together properly. She released a long, shuddering breath.

 

“You okay?” she heard him ask as he sat up slowly.

 

Realising too late her hand was still absently stroking his chest, she blushed and quickly stood up, murmuring another Cleansing Charm, this time for the sheets. The atmosphere in the room seemed uncomfortable suddenly, and she spoke up, trying to dispel the tension. “I’m afraid I don’t have any essence of murtlap for the minor scratches.” She nodded at his exposed chest and hip and coloured again. She’d had to unzip his trousers to see if she needed to pour dittany on the scratches there, but they had seemed minor, and she didn’t want to waste it.

 

Draco glanced down at himself and replied, “I’ve got some in the bathroom.”  He made to stand, but Hermione waved him down and walked into the bathroom. Like the room, it was small and compact, clean and modern-looking. There was a shower-stall, a toilet, and a single vanity sink. The vanity was cluttered with toiletries and what looked like a doctor’s bag filled with numerous glass bottles, all neatly labelled and stacked. She had no problems finding the murtlap. There was even a bottle of Blood-Replenishing Potion, which she grabbed together with a small face towel.

 

She walked back into the room to face a Draco who had removed his trousers and was now only clad in his boxers; he was attempting to fix his jacket. Willing herself not to blush at the expanse of pale skin stretched over sleek muscles on show— _Honestly, doesn’t Malfoy have a shy bone in his body?_ —she determinedly focussed her gaze on the area of the scratches, ignoring the tantalising view of the whole.

 

“Here,” she said as she thrust the Blood-Replenishing Potion at him, “drink this while I dab at the scratches.”

 

*

 

It was the most uncomfortable five minutes he could ever recall. Granger had dabbed the murtlap essence on his scratches and then blew on them softly. It had tickled him initially, but then the sight of her with her mouth pursed, her lips shaped into a small “o” in close proximity to his groin—he had pulled the left side of his boxers slightly down for her to deal with the minor scratches on his lower hip—had turned it into something erotically charged. Thank Merlin for the blood loss, or he would have embarrassed himself in a very blatant manner. As it was, a harem of naked women could have danced past his bed, and _lil’ Draco_ wouldn’t even have stirred.

 

He felt warm air travel gently across his skin again before Granger sighed and said, “Right, all done.” She frowned at his chest, making him wonder what she found so objectionable about it, before she finally said, “I can’t do anything about the bruising though.” She waved a hand at his thigh: a hand-shaped bruise was already turning purple. Fucking Inferius, he thought grimly.

 

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

 

“I’m hungry, and I think you need some food as well. Any chance of room service?” she asked.

 

He shook his head. “You’ll need to go downstairs and get something from the restaurant.”

 

As she made to leave, he added, “I don’t know if they’ve managed to track us here.”

 

She nodded; the implications in his words were clear. “I’ll be quick.” She took the key and let herself out.

 

Draco settled himself comfortably on the bed and clicked on the remote that turned on the small television set in the room. He had zero understanding of the Turkish language, but even he could tell that none of the channels he was flipping through carried any news of the attack on the Basilica Cistern. No mention of anything beyond the ordinary happening in Sultanahmet.

 

He ran his hands through his hair. _Impossible. Unless they’re trying to hush it up. But even then, someone would have cooked up a sorry excuse—terrorist attack or what-not, slight cave-in at historic site. Those blasts were nothing to joke about!_

He shivered at the thought of what might have happened to him and Granger had they been caught by the Death Eaters. _Not that we’re in the clear as yet._

He was quite certain Granger would try to contact the Aurors or at least the magical authorities in Turkey, but as Draco looked at the news, a little kernel of suspicion took root in his mind. It was widely known that what remained of Voldemort’s loyal followers had escaped to Europe. And they had stayed hidden there. Why Europe? There had to have been some help given by these communities to the Death Eaters, sympathizers who held the same ideals and beliefs as Voldemort. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise.

 

Three years was a long time to hide, and without even committing a single, note-worthy crime.

 

Unless those crimes were concealed by those with power and authority.

 

*

 

The delectable smell of sautéed prawns with just a hint of garlic again wafted past her nose as soon as Hermione stepped out of the hotel. A waiter was serving a couple at the table nearest to her, his hands full of a hot plate of sizzling prawns. The couple exclaimed excitedly over their dish while Hermione stared hungrily.

 

Waving the waiter over, she asked to order the same dish for take-away, together with _pilav_ , a rice dish cooked with butter, and _karniyarik_ : pieces of eggplant stuffed with ground beef, onions, garlic, and all sorts of delicious spices.  It just happened to be her favourite Turkish dish.

 

Satisfied that her empty stomach would soon be filled, Hermione decided to explore the tiny square in front of her. The waiter had said it would take about fifteen to twenty minutes before the food would be ready, and the twinkling lights and the noisy crowds had somehow managed to cast a soothing balm on her nerves. She would soak in the atmosphere. With that thought in mind, she walked towards the fountain in the middle of the square. It was a whimsical-looking thing: small pipes shooting water around its sides with a statue of fish right in the middle. Like everything else in the square, it was lit up. Glancing around the restaurants, she realised almost all of them sold seafood.

 

With a soft “Oh”, Hermione drew out her copy of _Baedeker’s_ from her jacket pocket and flipped through its pages. There it was: Kumkapi, a district famous for its delicious seafood due to its proximity to the Sea of Marmara. Tucking her guidebook back into her pocket, she strolled towards the restaurant with the belly-dancer, keen to get a closer look. She must have been about five feet away from the tables when the belly-dancer stopped next to a table filled with two men, one of whom looked like Walden Macnair. Hermione stopped dead in her tracks before quickly placing herself behind a group of German-speaking tourists.

 

Taking in a deep breath, she peeped around the woman standing in front of her; true enough, it was Macnair. No one knew what had happened to the Death Eater after the Battle of Hogwarts. It was assumed he had survived and escaped. He was on the Aurors’ _Wanted_ list, and she knew for a fact that that list had been circulated to all magical communities throughout Europe. The fact that he was here, moving about in the open, albeit among Muggles…

 

She turned and carefully made her way back to her restaurant, where she picked up the food, paid, and hastily made her way to the hotel. She’d already lost her appetite.

 

*

 

Granger burst into the room just as Draco walked out of his shower, a towel wrapped round his waist. “Oh, my God. Macnair. Down in the square,” she babbled as she dumped several plastic bags on the floor before turning around and locking the door. “Where’s your wand?” Her hand made impatient gestures until he passed it to her. She warded the door and the windows before slumping down on the only chair in the room. She ran her fingers through her hair, making it look worse than it already was. “Macnair,” she said again. “I saw him. Oh God, do you think they know—”

 

“Did he spot you?” Draco cut in urgently as he strode hurriedly towards a small cupboard, pulling out his trousers.  

 

“I don’t know. He was—he was sitting at one of the restaurants outside. I don’t know who with, but—”

 

“Wait,” Draco cut across her again. “Was he having dinner or did it seem as if he was looking for us?” His hand stilled on the knot holding the towel closed.

 

Granger dragged her hands down her face. “I don’t know. It _looked_ like he was having dinner.”

 

Draco sat down heavily on the bed, his mind whirring, facts clicking into place: _Death Eater attack on the Basilica Cistern; Inferi in the waters; nothing in the news; Macnair roaming easily in what is supposedly a Muggle district of Istanbul._

“Granger,” he said as he stood up, his trousers lying forgotten on the bed beside him, “do you recall reading if the wizarding communities here are more open about their magic with their Muggle counterparts?”

 

She frowned. “Inter-governmental cooperation and all that?”

 

“More than that. What if the Muggles _knew_ of the wizarding communities and both sides co-existed without the need for overt secrecy?”

 

Her eyes brightened as she recalled some obscure bit of information she’d no doubt researched before coming to Turkey. “There was mention that Suleiman the Magnificent’s court and inner circle comprised of advisors as diverse as soothsayers, diviners, astrologers, and alchemists. They were held in high esteem.”

 

“In other words, you think they might have been wizards,” he surmised.

 

She nodded. It was obvious she was following the same train of thought he was. “His heir, Selim, was known to have followed his preference for having such advisors, as did the sultans after them. There is nothing to suggest that when Ataturk formed the current republic, he abolished the system already in place for hundreds of years.” __

“So, it’s possible that the communities here aren’t divided and separated like ours. Perhaps, in this case, the magical community may even have a strong influence on the Muggle one.” _And the_ _current facts seem to imply this. It’s too much of a coincidence._

 

“There is that probability. Which means that what goes on in the Muggle world, the wizarding world might know of,” she mused.  Eyes wide, she suddenly asked, “What name did you use to book yourself into this hotel?”

 

“Daniel Black.” It said a lesson he’d learnt early on: it never hurt to travel incognito. He hesitated then mentioned, “Our escapade in the Basilica Cistern never made it to the news.”

 

She sighed wearily and he could have sworn she cursed. It was too soft for him to hear the exact words, though. She walked towards the bags of food she’d brought in and started placing little plastic containers on the table next to her chair. “I got us some dinner. From what you’ve just told me, I’m a bit sceptical of the local magical law enforcement. If what we suspect is true, then it’s too dangerous to go through the Turkish authorities to get hold of the Aurors back home. Macnair is wanted criminal. Yet he’s here, in Istanbul, moving freely. This suggests connections to the authorities. We’ll have to contact Harry or the Ministry directly.” She glanced at him. “And it might be best if we have another place to hide until we do.”

 

*

 

Sharing a bed with Draco Malfoy was disconcerting, to say the least. Firstly, the man did not see fit to wear anything but his boxers to bed. Constantly being exposed to all that pale skin was starting to get to her. It didn’t help that he had nicely defined muscles and a very interesting swirl of light blonde hair that started low on his tummy and then dipped mysteriously into his pants.  In the interests of self-preservation, she’d made a snarky remark about needing sunglasses to cut off the glare, but he’d noticed her staring and only smirked in response. The end result was that she’d felt even more flustered.

 

Secondly, the bed, though a double, was small. The compact room did not allow for any enlargement charms, and they’d both decided to keep wand-work to a minimum, in any case. In an effort to keep a respectable distance between them, Hermione had tried to keep as much as possible to her side of the bed.

 

Thirdly, and as a result of points one and two above, this meant that Hermione now found herself sleeping right on the edge of the bed, as Draco was one of those people who moved around in his sleep, taking up all available space. Not ten minutes ago, he had rolled to her side of the bed and, by a dint of flinging out an arm and a leg, had somehow managed to hijack her pillow from beneath her and the covers from over her. Consequently, Hermione was now cold and her neck had begun to ache.

 

She debated the merits of waking him up— _Pros: he moves voluntarily, I get my space, my share of the blanket and my pillow back; Cons: what if he thinks I’m some sort of danger and  attacks me? He’s the one with the wand. Or worse, he doesn’t wake up? I’d have to touch him to shake him awake. No, thank you—_ versus just pushing him back to his side of the bed. _Pros: I don’t need to go through the bother of waking him, I still get my space, my share of the blanket and my pillow back; Cons: for all his slender build, Malfoy’s heavy and I’d still need to touch him. A gentle prod wouldn’t do. Bugger._

 

She craned her neck and decided to whisper his name instead, in the hopes he’d wake up and move of his own volition. Several loud whispers later, Malfoy was still dead to the world and had somehow managed to fling a leg across her hip, almost knocking her off the bed altogether. With a huff, she managed to turn herself to fully face him, only to find his grey eyes staring at her.

 

“How long have you been awake?” she queried crossly, tamping down the embarrassment she felt at having his leg on her.

 

“Long enough,” he replied, his voice raspy with sleep. He tightened his leg across her hip and, ignoring her gasp, pulled her closer to him. She lay flush against him for several seconds, feeling the warmth of his chest and the bony press of his hips, before he rolled back to his side of the bed.

 

Moments later, she heard his deep, even breathing. He’d gone back to sleep. With another huff, she arranged the blanket over herself, fluffed her pillow and tried to ignore the man next to her.

 

Her face felt unaccountably warm from the encounter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suleiman the Magnificent and Selim are both real, historical figures. Mustafa Kamel Ataturk is of course, Turkey's first President. Needless to say, I have taken many liberties with history and twisted it to fit the story.


	3. III: Revelations

They checked out from the hotel early next morning. The man that had stared at them from behind the reception the night before had been replaced with a pretty young girl who seemed more interested in flirting with Draco than processing their check-out.

 

He could see Granger trying not to roll her eyes; she bit her lip instead, a sign of forcefully restraining herself from telling the girl off, Draco was sure. He paid and they both walked out into the crisp morning air.

 

The tiny square was barely alive: the restaurants were all closed, and the only sound was that of the water tinkling merrily in the fountain. Save for some sweepers, they were the only two people in the square.

 

Granger was avoiding looking him in the eye, obviously still rather embarrassed by last night. He didn’t know what had possessed him to drape his leg intimately across her hip and pull her against him. He objectively told himself that his actions were mere research, a means to confirm what he thought he observed of _her_ reaction to him: that she did not seem repulsed by him. In fact, her reaction to his near-nakedness seemed to suggest she found him physically attractive. And he’d had the opportunity to relish the feel of the soft curves that had been pressed against his frame earlier.

 

Still, it wasn’t normal behaviour for him, and he blamed his actions on Granger herself. _If_ she hadn’t stared at him like she’d never seen a naked man before or purse those lips in _that_ manner so damn near his groin—

 

“There’s a café open, over there.”  Granger pointed at a tiny café with a sign outside proclaiming they sold _kofte_ sandwiches, together with a bottle of _arya,_ a plain yogurt drink, for only three liras. It would do for breakfast.

 

*

 

They were walking towards the _Kapali Carsi_ , the Grand Bazaar, having decided to risk going to the wizarding section of the old town to send an Owl to Harry. There was no other option: Harry did not own a telephone—an oversight Hermione grimly decided she would remedy once they got back—and her parents were themselves away on holiday. None of her other friends were even remotely in touch with Muggle communications methods. The Owl seemed the only way. She could only pray and hope it was not intercepted before it reached Harry.

 

Having reached the grey stone structure known as the Second-hand Bookseller’s Gate that served as an entrance to the bazaar, they walked under its arches and immediately turned right, passing through what looked to be a solid wall and directly into wizarding Istanbul.

 

The scene before them was not unlike the atmosphere in the bazaar. The place was bustling with people as far as the eye could see. The streets were crowded with shoppers and street vendors proclaiming the benefits of their goods and their low prices. Those engaged with customers were busy haggling in a variety of languages: Turkish, Arabic, English, and French. The smell of incense and strong Turkish coffee permeated the air, tickling her nostrils and sorely tempting her to stop for a cuppa.

 

The streets themselves were narrow and straddled on both sides with buildings: houses and shops done in the traditional Ottoman style with stone bases and upper floors in either wood or brick and plaster.  Dotted amongst these smaller buildings were bigger structures that showcased an architectural mastery of domes, semi-domes, and columns. These slightly more opulent structures were set a little further back from the streets, surrounded by walls. It was a quaint mix of styles, and despite the gravity of their circumstances, Hermione found the entire atmosphere utterly enchanting.

 

It took them a while to get to the Owl Post, but they managed to conduct their business quickly and efficiently. Hermione was torn between leaving the wizarding section as soon as possible and attempting to retrieve her belongings from her hotel room. She didn’t like the thought of leaving her things behind and, furthermore, was determined to pay for her stay there. Her conscience didn’t allow otherwise. Malfoy, on the other hand, was reluctant to spend more time than necessary there.

 

“But we’re under heavy Glamours. You cast it yourself,” she pointed out, in what she hoped was a reasonable tone of voice.

 

From Draco’s expression, he didn’t seem to agree with either opinion. “You’re asking for trouble.”

 

“We’re as safe here as we are in the Muggle world.” She raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to respond. His only answer was a low growl that sent shivers down her back. And not the bad kind, Hermione thought, before clamping down on her inner voice firmly. _Do not go there_ , she told herself sternly.

 

Draco looked cross. “Five minutes. I’ll be having _cay_ over at that café over there.” He nodded at the tea shop across the road.

 

“Ten,” she countered. “And order a cup for me as well. Apple tea, preferably,” she said as she walked quickly to her hotel.

 

It took her less than seven minutes to gather all her things and stuff them into her suitcase. Silently thanking her mother for all those years of nagging at her to pick up after herself, Hermione cast one last look around her cosy room. She was sorry to let it go: the hotel was a small, family-run business, and its owners were friendly and served the most amazing breakfasts.  The morning’s _kofte_ sandwiches, though scrumptious, had nothing on her hotel’s traditional Turkish breakfast fare of warm bread served with _menemen_ : eggs scrambled in olive oil with tomatoes, green onions and peppers.

 

She ran down the stairs and headed to the reception, ready to check-out and make the necessary payments, only to be met by the figure of Macnair and another dark-haired fellow as they stood talking to the hotel owner.

 

Her first reaction was to make a break for the exit, but common sense prevailed and she walked sedately to the dining room just off the main reception area, hoping the three men did not notice her.  The room was thankfully empty and she quickly went to the window furthest from the door. It was small, but she figured it was big enough for her to wriggle out of. She cast a rueful glance at her suitcase. _That_ may be a problem. Praying the window wasn’t bolted down by magical means or otherwise, she eased it open and climbed over the sill.

 

A sharply hissed “Granger” almost caused her to scream but a warm hand clamped over her mouth in time.

 

“Shut up,” Draco muttered angrily as he shoved her behind him. He leaned through the window and, with a few sharp flicks of his wand, shrank her case and levitated it out of the room. Shoving it into his pocket, he grabbed her hand, and they quickly walked away from the hotel.

 

“How did you know—”

 

“You were gone longer than ten minutes. I went to the hotel entrance and I spotted Macnair. And then I saw you walking in and hurrying into another room,” he said tersely. “I ran in the direction you were headed and saw you pushing up the window.” He glared at her. “I told you it was dangerous.”

 

Hermione knew he was right but kept silent as they hurried to the Second-hand Bookseller’s Gate. She made a mental note to send her payment to the hotel once she got home safely.

 

*

 

They got out at Cemberlitas Square and were headed for the tram station when Draco caught sight of a tall, menacing-looking man with shaggy grey hair. His blood ran cold and his heart almost stopped beating when the man started towards them.  The man was too far away for Draco to discern the colour of his eyes, but his instincts were screaming at him that the feral-looking face was host to a pair of yellowed eyes and a snarling mouth full of sharp teeth.

 

He grabbed Granger’s arm and hurriedly tugged her into the shop behind them. They found themselves in dimly-lit corridor with a large wooden door at its end. Hurrying towards it, Draco pushed the heavy door open to reveal a large reception area with wooden beams criss-crossing the high, domed ceiling with a large, old-fashioned chandelier hanging from the central beam. Cushions were scattered along the sides of the room, and several couples lay reclining on them, chatting quietly to themselves.

 

A large Turkish man in traditional clothing stepped up and welcomed them.

 

“Welcome to our _hamam_ ,” he said solemnly. “Do you have reservations?”

 

Before Draco could answer, he heard a hammering from the other side of the wooden door. Startled, he looked at the Turk.  The latter was staring intently at him, ignoring the loud knocks. With a quick wave of his hand, the hammering ceased.

 

Shocked, Draco reached for his wand, but stopped when the man said, “We do have an opening for people of _our_ kind.” With a slightly softer tone, he continued, “It is slightly different from the services we offer to normal tourists.”

 

“How—how did you know?”  Granger asked in a hushed tone.

 

The man waved an arm at them. “You are not yourselves.” He obviously referred to the Glamours.  Draco’s finger itched to reach for his wand: _This man could be dangerous._

 

The man stared directly at Draco. “We are not particular about who are clients are. So long as you follow the rules of the _hamam_ and do not attack or cause harm to anyone while here, you will be welcomed. Come, follow me.” The man nodded at another man, also dressed in similar fashion, though of slighter build—clearly another _hamam_ employee—who stood to take his place near the door.

 

The words assuaged Draco’s wariness somewhat and with a nod at Granger, they followed. The Turk led them through another wooden door and into another dimly-lit corridor, which ended at a small chamber that held two comfortable-looking chairs, an intricately carved chest between them, and a tall, wooden mirror-stand.

 

“This building was built by the famous architect, Mimar Sinan, during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent. The Sultan had ordered that wards and spells be weaved into its very foundations during its construction to ensure that only those with peaceful intent are allowed in.”

 

Draco exchanged a look with Granger. So, their earlier assumptions were correct.

 

“For some reason, the building only allows couples in. No single man or single woman will be admitted beyond the front door,” the man explained as he ushered them into the room. “That is why, for normal tourists, we only accept customers with prior reservations.”

 

Draco had to ask. “And the hammering on the door just now?”

 

The Turk bestowed upon him a very knowing smile. “A male wizard: one who did not have the aura of peaceful intentions about him. But I think _you_ already know that. Come, the _pestemal_ ”—he indicated the red, white, and black striped towel-like cloths lying on the seat of each chair—“are there. You take off all your clothes, wrap the _pestemal_ around yourself, and the _tellak_ will come fetch you to the baths.” He paused before saying, “You may wish to be yourselves in the baths. Once you are done, I will come to you. I think perhaps, you may need some advice on certain matters.” With that cryptic statement, he closed the door behind him.

 

Draco quickly ran to see if they were locked in, but the door opened easily. Nothing seemed amiss.

 

“What do you think?” he asked his companion abruptly as two, tiny, steaming glasses of _cay_ appeared on the chest. He walked over and cast several spells over the tea to make sure it was safe to drink. He nodded and Granger gingerly lifted a glass to her mouth for a sip.

 

She sighed. “I don’t know.”

 

He glared at her.

 

She glared back and explained herself. “I mean, I do not know his intentions, but he seems to be willing to help. At the rate we’re going, I think we need it. He seems to be a powerful wizard; if he is working for the Death Eaters, I would think he’d have handed us over to them by now. Instead, we’re going to experience a Turkish bath. And we seem to be as safe here as we can possibly be.” She put down her glass. “You saw Greyback, didn’t you?”

 

He nodded slowly. “I think so.”

 

“I saw him, too. He must have seen us coming out of the Gate as if the Hounds of Hell were behind us and suspected something.”

 

Draco shook his head. “I think we’re safe here, for now.” He took a sip of his tea and began to undress, wondering what the older wizard had in store for them.

 

*

 

Hermione tried very hard not to look at Draco wrapped only in the _pestemal_ , which was just another word for a towel. And not a very thick or large one at that. The curve of his buttocks was clearly delineated as he bent over to fold his clothes and set them neatly on the chair.

 

Her face flamed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, wrapped in the same material. The _pestemal_ ended about four inches above her knees and she was very aware of the fact that she was naked underneath.

 

And that Draco was naked under his.

 

She flushed even brighter and told herself that it was just plain bad luck that she’d caught a glimpse of him as he undressed. It wasn’t really her fault: it was just that she was facing the mirror at the exact moment Draco had tossed his boxers to the side. She’d gotten a quick glance— _Oh, really, who am I kidding?_ _It was more than a glance, Hermione, my girl!_ —of his bum, and it was quite, quite splendid. It looked firm and rounded and utterly spank-worthy as it curved down onto strong-looking thighs. Despite sternly admonishing herself, Hermione wondered how it would feel like if she gave Malfoy’s bum a good squeeze.

 

“Granger. Granger!” Malfoy’s exasperated tone finally caught her attention. “Is it possible for you to stop admiring yourself in front of the mirror?” His tone was snide, but his whole demeanour was one of amusement.

 

Hermione blushed even harder. Was it possible he knew that she’d been ogling him? Honestly, if she carried on like this, her face would be perpetually red.

 

He motioned to the door where two young men were standing, wrapped in similar _pestemal_ s, with wooden clogs on their feet.  They were the _tellak_ : the masseurs who would be scrubbing, massaging, and bathing them.

 

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “They’re both men.” _Oh, dear._

 

Draco said curtly, “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Granger. They’re professionals. I’m sure they’ve seen lots of naked women. You won’t be the first.”

 

Stung by that cutting comment, Hermione retorted, “Yes, and I’m sure they’ve seen a lot more of those than you.”

 

One of the _tellak_ held up a placating hand, interrupting what was sure to be a full-blown argument between them. “This way, if you please,” he said politely. “And please do not worry; you will both be in the baths together. It will be a private one, and you need not fear about others being there.”

 

_Great_ , Hermione thought to herself. _Just what I need: a naked Draco Malfoy all to myself._

 

They were given a pair of slippers each and led to a warm, humid room with a raised stone platform in the centre and a big dome above. The floor was slippery and covered in coloured tiles. Two copper basins, with water flowing into them from a tap above it, were placed at opposite ends of the room.

 

The _tellak_ gestured for them to lie on the stone platform, which was heated and meant to help them perspire. Hermione lay down slowly, careful to make sure her _pestemal_ still decently covered her. She glanced at Draco; he was sprawled carelessly next to her, his _pestemal_ riding high on his thighs.  The _tellak_ quietly withdrew, stating they would return in about twenty minutes once the bathers had worked up a sweat.

 

It only took Hermione about five minutes before she felt extremely hot. She sat up and glanced longingly at the basin. Draco must have been feeling the same, for he too sat up and with a quick glance at her, made for the basin.

 

He plunged his hand into it and said, “Water’s cold.”

 

With a happy sigh, Hermione hopped down from the platform and hurried towards the other basin. Following Draco’s example, she used the copper pan hanging by a chain next to the basin to scoop up some cold water and poured it over herself. It felt deliciously cool and refreshing and she repeated her actions twice more before heading back to the stone platform.

 

Draco was already lying down, eyes closed, and as she wriggled onto the platform, she noticed that the _pestemal_ now clung to him like second skin. As if pulled by some unknown force, her eyes roamed over his body, lingering on the bulge between his legs and then travelling down his thighs and towards his feet.

 

“I think you have an unearthly fascination with my body, Granger.”

 

With a soft squeak, she tore her eyes away from his legs to stare at his face. He was watching her though heavy-lidded eyes, an amused expression on his face.

 

“Not that I’m not flattered,” he said with slight quirk to his lips, “but I don’t believe now is the time or place to do anything about it.” He glanced at her slyly before closing his eyes again.

 

Hermione could only blush, mouth agape, in response. By the time she’d managed to compose herself, the _tellak_ had returned to the warm room and were now beckoning them towards the nearest basin.

 

Chiding herself for being caught ogling, Hermione quickly followed the men, trying to ignore Draco behind her.

 

The basin must have been enchanted, for when the men poured the water over them, it was warm. They were escorted back to the stone platform.

 

“Please,” said the younger-looking _tellak_ to Hermione, “will you lie down here”—he gestured to the platform—“and take off your _pestemal_. I will scrub your back and front.” He held up a coarse-looking mitt.

 

Hermione felt totally flustered and thought she heard Draco growl. Her _tellak_ turned towards him, pointing out a space next to her. “You will lie here, next to your wife.” The _don’t worry_ was implied.

 

Hermione opened her mouth to correct the man but saw Draco give an infinitesimal shake of his head, all the while frowning ferociously at the _tellak_.

 

Turning every shade of red possible, Hermione sat down and loosened her _pestemal_ , letting it fall down to her waist. She ignored Draco’s frown and his sudden intense stare, quickly lying down on her front, her head pillowed on her arms.  “The back first, please,” she whispered to the _tellak_. The man nodded and, climbing up on the platform, knelt beside her and began scrubbing her back with the mitt, removing layers of dirt and dead skin.

 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Draco being similarly administered to by the other _tellak_. The man spoke softly to Draco, gesturing to the newly healed skin on his shoulder and arm, and Draco nodded. The _tellak_ bypassed those areas and, instead, lowered Draco’s _pestemal_ , exposing his buttocks. Hermione tried to suppress a breathy gasp as she took in the view, but her _tellak_ soon moved into her line of sight and starting scrubbing her arm.  She closed her eyes—there was nothing to see now, was there?—and tried not to blush as the _tellak_ swiftly parted her _pestemal_ and scrubbed her bum with quick, efficient strokes. He covered her again before moving on to the back of her thighs and calves and then her feet.

 

In a professional tone, he asked her to turn over so that he may scrub her front. Sure that her blush had now spread from her face to everywhere else on her body, Hermione did so, still keeping her eyes closed.

 

She felt the coarse mitt scrub vigorously between her breasts, down to her stomach and the up again to her armpits before moving down her arms. The touch was impersonal and Hermione felt thankful for that. Opening her eyes, she saw the _tellak_ nod at her before he re-covered her upper body and went on to scrub her thighs all the way down to her feet.

 

Peeking at Draco, she saw his _tellak_ pick up a white, thin cloth, very much like an icing bag, and blow through it right above Draco’s body. Soap bubbles immediately formed and covered Draco from head to toe. Glancing up at her _tellak_ , she saw him do the same, and she gasped as she was enveloped by the white, frothy bubbles.

 

*

 

Draco chuckled to himself at Granger’s reaction to being naked and having to submit to the ministrations of the male _tellak_. He had felt some stirrings of what he strongly suspected to be jealousy and protectiveness at first, but her reaction had dispelled any uneasiness he’d harboured. And her _tellak_ was scrupulously professional. Granger had been very much flustered, and her embarrassment had shone through in a blush that had travelled from her cheeks down to her breasts. Her blatant perusal of his body had already caused all sorts of effects within him, the most discernible being his semi-hardened state. The sight of her full breasts all pink and rosy had made it even worse. He’d had to shift the folds of the _pestemal_ discreetly, trying to hide the evidence of his arousal. His _tellak_ had merely smiled at him in understanding—no hiding anything from the eagle-eyed man, it seemed—before proceeding to scrub every inch of skin.

 

The warm, soapy bubbles engulfing him had felt like bliss after the exfoliating he’d suffered through. The _tellak_ requested he turn on his stomach again, and after shifting to accommodate himself and his erection, he nodded at the _tellak_ , who proceeded to again engulf him in the warm, soapy bubbles and massage him, kneading strongly at the knots in his shoulders and back. A soft groan drew his attention from the strong hands pressing hard on his back.

 

Granger was obviously enjoying her massage, from the sounds she was emitting. Her eyes were closed and there was a tiny smile on her face. He frowned as he noticed her _tellak_ lifting up her towel, intending to massage her bum. The man glanced at him, at his fellow _tellak_ , and then, as if a decision was somehow reached between the two Turks, beckoned Draco over.

 

“Yousuf says you may massage your wife if you are uncomfortable with him doing so,” his _tellak_ whispered.

 

Strangely compelled by the look in the other man’s eyes, Draco scooted over to Granger. Her _tellak_ took his hands and laid them, palms spread out, over the small of Granger’s back. Her skin was soft and smooth and warm. With Yousuf’s hands overlapping his exerting a gentle pressure, the other man showed Draco how to knead the fine muscles in Granger’s back before slowly moving Draco’s palms down towards the curve of her bum. Like her back, her skin there was soft and smooth. Kneading the firm yet supple flesh was highly arousing.  Her waist was small, her heart-shaped bum a lush, plump contrast that made him itch to fondle it and sink his—he stopped his train of thought before it got any further and _he_ got any harder. It would not do to openly lust after Granger, not with the other two men still waiting politely for him to finish. He continued massaging her muscles as Yousuf had taught him and resisted the urge to explore what lay between her thighs. He could just catch a glimpse of wiry brown curls. He heard Granger moan as he skimmed his fingers across the fullness of her bum to press firmly on the sides of her hips, relieving any pressure there. Yousuf finally gestured that it was time for him to stop and let him take over, so with one last press against that resilient flesh, Draco removed his hands.

 

Yousuf deftly covered Granger’s bum with her towel before massaging her thighs. Draco returned to his side and winced as he adjusted himself so as to be able lie as comfortably as he could on his stomach on the hard, stone platform.

 

Once the massage was finished, they were both led back to the basins for a wash and each handed a clean _pestemal_. The _tellak_ discreetly turned their backs to allow them both to take off the wet towels and wrap themselves in the dry ones before leading them to what was known as a cool room, to rest and relax. Again, cups of steaming _cay_ appeared on the low table before them, with the scent of pomegranate, sharp and bitter, thick in the air.

 

*

 

They were finally shown their way back to the changing room after ingesting three cups of tea each. Hermione didn’t really enjoy the pomegranate tea; it tasted somewhat tart to her, though Draco had murmured his pleasure over it audibly.

 

The massage had done wonders to ease the tension in her body, though every time she thought about how the masseuse had touched her bum, she blushed and shivered. It had felt different, more of a caress than the professional kneading she’d quickly become accustomed too. Arousal had stirred low in her belly and she couldn’t help that breathy moan that had come tumbling out. Her mind had wondered in that few minutes, indulging in a fantasy that had starred Draco as her masseuse instead of the young _tellak_ , only to snap back into reality when she’d felt the wet _pestemal_ slap lightly onto her skin.

 

It was obvious she was attracted to Malfoy. The truth of the matter was she had always found him physically and intellectually appealing, even back at Hogwarts. True, she hadn’t _liked_ him, but she’d appreciated the sharp, angular features that gave his face a lovely symmetry that was uncommon in most people, and she had, as the years passed, recognised the shrewd, intelligent mind behind the sneers and offensive behaviour towards her and hers.

 

It was rational, logical even, she argued to herself, to feel _something_ for such a person, especially when he had effectively saved one’s life. Propinquity in intense situations would do that to anyone. It didn’t hurt that he had filled out his previously skinny frame; he was still of slender build, but was leanly muscled in all the right places. He was no weakling, she surmised as she hastily pulled on her clothes, studiously ignoring the temptation posed by the mirror: she recalled how easily he’d over-powered her and managed to pull himself up even after being seriously injured at the Basilica Cistern. And his mental faculties were well on par with hers.

 

A sharp knock on the changing room’s door had her hurriedly tying up the laces on her trainers before it opened to admit their host, for want of a better word. The older man eased his bulk around the door and shut it quietly. A chair—matching the pair already in the room—materialised out of thin air, and their host settled himself comfortably on it.

 

“My name is Adil,” he began, “and I am but one of the _Askeri_ , the administrators, if you will, of all things and beings magical in Turkey.”

 

Hermione saw Draco take out his wand and hold it loosely in his hand. Adil noticed as well but didn’t seem unduly perturbed by it. In fact, he looked to be settling himself deeper into his chair, as if intending to have a long chit-chat with them. He steepled his fingers as he continued. “I do not want to know exactly who you are,” he said directly to Draco, “but I believe what the wards protecting this building are telling me: you do not have any malevolent intentions but seem to be seeking refuge instead.  I have also discerned from the barrage of spells against our wards that it was a Dark Wizard who attempted to enter our premises just now, immediately after your precipitous entrance.”

 

Hermione kept silent throughout, though she could sense Draco tensing beside her, the tell-tale sign of his worry evident from the white-knuckled grip on his wand.

 

“You need not fear, young man,” Adil said calmly. “While there are many Dark Arts practitioners here, more so than in your country, not all are sympathisers of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Admittedly, several of the _Askeri_ are, but I am not one of them.” He shook his head.

 

Hermione felt relieved at hearing that, though she still continued to be wary of Adil. He was, by his own admission, a very powerful wizard.

 

“Yes, I know they are looking for you,” he said complacently, shooting Hermione a beatific smile that was somehow incongruous with the statement he was making. “It seems the Death Eaters spotted you”—here, he nodded at her specifically—“at the _Kapali Carsi_ several days ago and recognised you.  My only advice would be for you, both of you, to leave Turkey as soon as you can. I do not recommend using means of the _reaya_ —what do you English call it? Muggle? Yes?—not the Muggle way.  The _Askeri_ have eyes and ears in the Muggle world in Turkey. Emergency International Portkeys will not be issued without approval from our Department of Magical Transport, which is headed by a well-known Death Eater sympathiser.”

 

“I take it he’s also a prominent member of the _Askeri_?” she asked, her mind already making shrewd connections.

 

Adil nodded at her, his eyes gleaming. “What you will do is to visit an old friend of mine along the Alemdar Caddesi. Enter the gates of Gulhane Park, off Alemdar. Head for the fork that divides the park and the uphill walk leading towards _Topkapi Sarayi_. Walk straight into the fork and you shall see the entrance to his home: a dark green, wooden door. He will arrange to have you safely delivered to your Ministry of Magic.”

 

“I thought you said it was practically impossible to issue International Portkeys without alerting the _Askeri_?” Draco demanded, his eyes narrowing on Adil.

 

“My friend is a very senior member of the Department of Magical Transport and has the means and methods necessary to accomplish what is required,” Adil replied gently.

 

“This is all politics for you, isn’t it?” Draco asked abruptly.

 

Adil flashed his beatific smile at Draco. “Some of us do not like the influence of the Death Eaters on the _Askeri_. We have been living with non-magical beings for many centuries without conflict, and to see that cooperation disintegrating is a shame. It may be that political pressure from your Ministry and even the International Confederation of Wizards is all that is needed for some members of the _Askeri_ to rethink their values and for those disinclined to follow the old ways to remove themselves as administrators of the community.”

 

“Making way for others,” Draco murmured. 

 

Adil’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most hamams in Turkey separate the male and female bathing areas, with a female masseuse for female clients, and the male tellak for male customers. There are unisex hamams, but unlike in the story, you are not fully naked: women are requested to wear shorts and a bikini top made of the same material as the pestemal. The men stick to the traditional towel wraps.
> 
> Mimar Sinan was one of the Ottoman Empire's most famous and prolific architects, and was active during Suleiman the Magnificent's reign. He was responsible for the design of many of Turkey's famous mosques and baths.


	4. IV: Possibilities

They were currently hiding inside the small changing room of a restaurant on Alemdar Caddesi, sharing extremely cramped quarters with a metal clothes-rail from which hung numerous long, white robes with voluminous skirts, a dressing table, and several chairs in need of serious repair. Tall, red hats were stacked upon each other, negligently tossed on the seat of the single, unbroken chair in the room.

 

Draco surmised that these were the costumes of the famous Whirling Dervishes; in fact, Granger had already pulled out her _Baedeker’s_ and was in the process of imparting to him all her knowledge on the mystical Sufi ceremony where men whirled round and round in a physically active form of meditation through which they achieved a connection with their God. It drew crowds of tourists every time it was performed. He knew she was slightly disappointed that they wouldn’t have the chance to see the ceremony being performed at the restaurant tonight: they were due to leave the safe-keeping of the restaurant manager—another political ally of Adil’s—in about half an hour’s time to make their way to Gulhane Park for their rendezvous with a Portkey.

 

It seemed Portkey man, as Draco had mentally termed him, needed time to cover his tracks, should some discerning Ministry employee notice that an International Portkey was issued without the Head of Department’s approval.  It made sense, of course, but Draco still chafed at the bit; he hated having to wait. It did not make him any less wary to be shuttled from the _hamam_ to this restaurant, though he appreciated the fact that Adil had wanted to press some political point or other with the restaurant manager by leaving them in his care.

 

At least they were fed at the restaurant. Judging from the breathy moan Granger had emitted and the look of pleasure that had wreathed her face the moment she’d taken a bite of the grilled lamb from the platter placed before them, they’d been fed well. He appreciated good food as much as the next person, but Granger took it to a whole new level. Every time she put a forkful of the flavourful _kebab_ into her mouth, her eyes would close, she’d let out a breathy little hum of pleasure, and an expression that bordered on ecstasy would cross her features. He was _arrested_ by that expression; the thought that had blazed through his mind the moment he saw it scared him: _He wanted her to look at him like that._

That thought had crystallised all the other emotions he’d felt in relation to her—anger, irritation, fear, desire, protectiveness, jealousy—emotions running rampant in him since the moment she’d tried to immobilise him at the Basilica Cistern.

 

Draco blamed it on the stress of being on the run—caused by Granger in the first place—as well as all those erotically-charged incidences between them (also caused by a certain witch) for his momentary lapse of sanity, but it could not be helped. The thought had taken firm root in his mind and would not be dislodged. There was something definite and final about it. He knew there was nothing to be done about it now, but he resolved to somehow do something about it—about _her_ —when they ultimately reached the safer shores of England. 

 

*

 

Hermione glanced at Draco as they walked briskly along Alemdar Caddesi towards the gates of Gulhane Park. They had disguised themselves again, and instead of his distinctive white-blond hair, Draco now wore it in a short cap of mousy-brown curls. He had darkened his skin, too, and looked like he was sporting a fading tan. Everything else about him remained the same, from the way he walked to the sharp, pointy end of his nose. He had lightened her hair and then, to her utter surprise, had deftly plaited the long strands into a braid. The shock of his fingers combing through her hair and his nails scraping delicately against the nape of her neck had caused her to squeal and break out in goose pimples, but when confronted with her stare of incredulity at his actions, he’d only muttered that it was to keep her hair out of _their_ way.

 

Save for that brusque comment, he’d been quiet ever since their late lunch at the restaurant, though she had been the recipient of some rather intense stares from him ever since. Those stares had deviated between thoughtful to what she’d termed as downright heated. She had felt uncomfortable and yet strangely excited by them, instinctively knowing that, somehow, the two of them had generated enough sexual tension between them to light up half of Alemdar Caddesi.

 

She felt giddy just thinking about it.

 

A slight touch to her wrist brought her attention back to her companion. Draco nodded at the gates to one of Istanbul’s famous parks: it had once been part of the grounds belonging to the _Topkapi Sarayi_ , or the Topkapi Palace, closed to all but the sultan and his harem. Now, it was an open greenspace accessible to the public. To the left, immediately after the gate’s entrance, were street vendors selling edibles ranging from grilled corn-on-the-cob to the infamous Turkish ice-cream to _kofte_ sandwiches. Other peddlers were selling balloons, tourist knick-knacks, and little plastic toys and gimmicks, all spread out on mats strewn across the ground. Children were running around the park’s wide avenue, lovers were strolling hand-in-hand, and families picnicked on the verdant grass. A soft wind blew gently, rustling the leaves on the trees, bringing with it the sharp, clean smell of grass that wove tantalisingly with the smoky scent of burning charcoal from the street-food vendors. It was an idyllic setting. There was even a pond further ahead to their left, complete with an ornamental wooden bridge, but time was of the essence, and she felt Draco grasp her hand and tug her to their right.

 

As Adil had promised, there was some sort of barrier that delineated the pathway that would lead tourists to Topkapi Palace, separating it from the rest of the park. It was composed of tall, leafy trees and heavy shrubs. It looked very much a part of the park. A quick glance by the both of them ensured that no one else was paying them much attention. Wand in hand and with a purposeful stride, Draco walked straight at it and disappeared from sight. With a quick breath and butterflies dancing crazily in her stomach, Hermione did the same and found herself in a small garden filled with flowering plants of every imaginable colour, their sweet scent perfuming the air.

 

Draco was already walking up the tiny cobblestone path, bordered with clumps of what looked to be miniature pink tulips, that led to a green, wooden door set in a typical Ottoman-style house, with its upper floors overhanging the lower parts of the house. It was painted a bright, cheery yellow. There was a knocker on the door in the shape of griffin-like bird. She nodded at Draco as he looked over at her, and he grasped the knocker firmly before beating out a sharp _rat-tat-tat_.

 

*

 

The diminutive man was not someone Draco had expected to greet them. Most of the Turkish men he’d met in Istanbul were the tall, strapping type. Portkey man was shorter and slighter than Granger and looked as if he were a hundred years-old, if not more. Clad in a white caftan heavily embroidered with gold and red threads at the neckline, sleeves, and hem, he was a wizened, dried-up looking fellow with a long, pointy nose, and Draco wondered if he had goblin blood running through his veins.

 

Despite his obvious age, the old man possessed extremely sharp eyes, which he used to carefully scrutinise both Draco and Granger before waving them in and leading them to a small, cosy-looking ante-chamber. What Draco assumed to be the living room was covered in richly patterned silk carpets, with large cushions set around a low, circular table. On the table was an innocuous-looking brass lamp topped by a multi-coloured glass lamp-shade. Draco guessed it was the Portkey: it stood there, unlit, a beautiful hand-crafted glass globe of varying shades of brown, amber, and red. The warm sunlight from the windows was refracted into an array of muted golds and dark reds, the colours seemingly seeping onto the white cloth beneath the lamp.

 

“It is charmed to leave in two minutes,” the old man said in a surprisingly deep tone. He saw Granger’s lips twitch, as if she, too, was amused by the incongruity of the man’s size and the rich timbre of his voice.

 

The man indicated they sit on the floor cushions as he himself nimbly settled down, crossing his legs. “You will remember Adil’s wish for you to speak directly to your Minister regarding the state of affairs in Istanbul.” It was an instruction, not a request.

 

A sidelong glance at Hermione showed her nodding. The implication was clear to the both of them: help was given with the expectation of political assistance in return. Draco knew enough of the current politics in the Ministry of Magic to know that Minister Shacklebolt would agree to help Adil and his supporters: he would be gaining political allies through the Turks and, internationally, better leverage for their representative in the ICW. He would also be getting his hands on the remaining Death Eaters, an act that would surely increase his popularity back in Britain and cement his claim to future terms as the Minister of Magic. Adil and his _Askeri_ supporters need not have feared that Minister Shacklebolt would not throw his political support, and his Aurors, behind them.

 

Draco cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help,” he replied formally. “We know what is expected of us.”

 

The old man inclined his head regally and motioned for them to touch the lamp. Within seconds, Draco felt the familiar, hard tug behind his navel, and he was soon pulled into a whirlpool of sensations and images before being deposited in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

 

*

It took several hours and many cups of tea—boring Earl Grey; nothing as exciting as apple tea—before they managed to leave the hallowed halls of the Ministry. They’d had to explain themselves to Harry—who did receive her Owl and was planning on launching a search-and-rescue mission—and the Aurors, meet with Shacklebolt, go back to the Aurors again, speak with the British representative of the International Confederation of Wizards, and meet again with Shacklebolt, together with the ICW rep and numerous other paper-pushers working at diplomatic relations within the Ministry, before they were allowed to take their leave. There was of course, the injunction that the both of them were not to leave Britain within the next three to five days.  They also had to be available for further questioning by Ministry officials, should the need arise.

 

Draco had scowled at that restriction, even going so far as to growl that he would not stay in a country where his parents’ lives had been brutally taken and where his own may still be in further danger. Those words had sparked a sudden tension with the participants of the meeting—specifically Harry and the senior Aurors—with its implication that they had somehow failed to foresee the dangers posed by the remaining Death Eaters against the Malfoy family. It was all Hermione could do to soothe ruffled feathers by doing the unthinkable: proposing that Draco stay with her at her flat in Holborn in the Muggle part of London. That way, she had reasoned to all, he would be relatively safe in England, without having to worry about untoward attention from the wizarding media and other undesirables.

 

Draco had remained tight-lipped, but Minister Shacklebolt and the Head of the Auror Office had thought her plan nothing short of brilliant and had agreed with it. Harry had just scowled as blackly as Draco.

 

Hermione did not want to delve too deeply into the motives for her impulsive gesture; she rather suspected _she_ would not think too highly of herself if she did. The only appropriate reason, the only neutral reason she could think of to placate herself with, was that she wanted the both of them to see the end of their little Turkish adventure together. And also, a tiny part of her whispered, that she’d rather her association with Draco not end so abruptly. Selfish, but there it was.

 

Stumbling out of the fireplace at her flat, she felt terribly tired and drained, physically and mentally, and wanted nothing more than to eat something, sort out her mixed feelings about a certain someone, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

 

A quiet “Granger” from her erstwhile travelling companion as he stepped out of the Floo, brushing the soot from his jacket sleeve, sent a shot of excitement down her nerves. She turned to see him looking somewhat uncomfortable, with his hand clasping the back of his neck and what looked to be a slight reddening of his cheeks. “I, er, thank you, for letting me stay with you.”

 

She stared at him, finding the extra colour washing across his cheekbones rather pleasing to the eye. Unbidden, the thought of how he’d looked, flushed with the heat from the _hamam_ and with his wet towel clinging to his lower body, rose in her mind. She flushed as well. “It was the least I could do. I mean, you did save my life. More or less,” she replied, referring to how he’d essentially made sure she was out of the Death Eaters’ firing range at the Basilica Cistern.

 

Draco remained quiet, and Hermione found the silence unnerving. Deciding to live up to the courage Gryffindors were supposedly known for, she moved closer to Draco, intending to perhaps touch him … or something. _Anything._ Instead of making the first move in acknowledging their growing attraction for each other, however, she nervously blurted out, “Would you like some tea?” She winced at how inane that question sounded.

  
He suddenly smirked, his eyes lighting up in amusement. “Between us, I would think we’ve had two pots each while at the Ministry. More like I should be asking you: Where’s the loo?”

 

Hermione felt all kinds of foolish as she waved her hand towards the corridor that led to the shower and toilet. “Loo’s over there. The room you’ll be staying in is that way as well. It’s just next to the bathroom. I’ll get the sheets and blankets you’ll need while you, umm…” She trailed off, hands waving in mid-air.

 

Draco stared at her intently before reaching out and catching her hands.

 

_Oh._

“Let’s revisit this issue of me saving your life, Granger. Are you saying you owe me a life debt?” He raised his brows suggestively, a smile flirting at the corner of his lips. His thumb brushed against her wrist, sending all kinds of tingling feelings racing down her nerve-endings. He tugged her a little closer to him, and she could detect the faint smell of pomegranate tea and a whiff of some exotic incense that reminded her of Istanbul.

 

The look on his face—one of interest and warm appreciation for her—gave her the courage to say, “I thought life debts were magical bonds.”  His thumb continued its light stroking of her wrist while his other hand reached around to the small of her back to rest there lightly. Feeling extremely confident that something good would be coming out of this exchange, she dared to tease, “You know what they say about relationships that start under intense circumstances.”

 

“Oh?” he asked, as he moved closer to her, his body now flush against hers.

 

“They never last,” she said, a tad breathlessly.

 

“Really?” He cocked his head to the side, looking for all the world like he was seriously pondering the veracity of that statement while his hand cruised down to the curve of her bum to gently press her against him.

 

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied with as much firmness as she could, considering that she could tell he was _definitely_ interested in her. They’ve done extensive studies on this.” She nodded for emphasis as she angled her head towards his, wanting him to kiss her and finally put to bed all the sexual tension between them.

_Oh my, put to bed!_ Hermione wanted to giggle at her choice of words, but Draco’s slowly descending mouth threw all thoughts out of her head.

 

“You don’t say,” he murmured as he kissed her.

_Finally!_

 

Despite the sharp, angular look of him, Draco’s lips were soft and warm. The kiss was hesitant at first, as if he was unsure of her reaction, but the moment she parted her lips and brushed her tongue against his lower lip, he took control of the kiss. It became a heated exchange of lips and tongues, of hands roaming up and down curves and angles, of caresses and desperate clutches, of questions asked and readily answered.

 

Buttons and zippers and cloth were seen as hindrances, and by the time they made it to Hermione’s bedroom, a trail of torn and discarded clothing littered the floor.

 

As they tumbled into bed, Hermione decided that maybe she wasn’t _that_ tired after all.

 

*

 

“Did you manage to take the lamp back from Harry?” Granger asked as she leaned against the headboard of her bed, her lips swollen and her face delightfully flushed from their recent activities in bed.

 

“And here I thought I’d rendered you speechless. As I recall, the only words you could manage not ten minutes ago were ‘ _Oh,_ _God’_ and ‘ _Draco’_.” He smirked as she blushed and leaned in to press a kiss against her lips, his hands smoothing across the sheet she’d clutched against her chest, moulding his palms to the soft, warm weight of her breasts. He ran his thumbs across her nipples and felt them harden in response. With a soft huff of laughter, he released her mouth but kept his hands where they were. She looked wonderfully aroused and bemused. “You were saying?” he prompted.

 

“Oh,” she squeaked and batted at his hands. “You’re incorrigible.”

 

He gave her another squeeze before deciding to remind her of her fascination with his body. “I’m not the one ogling the other person the entire time we were in Istanbul, on the run from the Death Eaters.”

 

“Why you—”

 

“I’m not the one with the grabby hands either. I swear, my arse still bears the imprint of your nails digging into them. You really do have a thing for them, don’t you?”

  
She gasped as he continued blithely, “I mean, I’m not averse to you spanki—” His words were cut-off when her palm slapped over his mouth.

 

“Draco!” she cried, her face even redder than before. “Honestly, stop trying to embarrass me, and stop trying to change the subject.”

 

He laughed. “Granger, the lamp’s still with Potter. He promised to return it once they’re finished with their investigations.”  He looked at her. “Why is it so important to you?” he asked quietly.

 

She sighed. “It’s a memento of our time together in Istanbul. I’d like to keep it.” She sounded wistful, as if this were a one-off thing between them.

 

Anxious to disabuse her of that notion, he drew a deep breath and took the plunge. “What’s to keep us from going to Istanbul again? I mean, once all that is over?”

 

“You mean, together?” she asked quietly.

 

He nodded. “I haven’t been to Topkapi Palace.” He swallowed nervously before saying, “And I hear it’s rather romantic, taking a cruise along the Bosphorus. What say you?”

 

He saw a smile blossom across her face.  His heart soared but then plummeted to the ground as she said, “I’ll have to think about it.”  She tapped a finger against her lips. “Will you be hogging the whole bed?”

 

He grinned as his heart decided to stay where it was—in its rightful place—and his heart rate steadied. “Is that an invitation, Granger?” He winked salaciously at her.

 

She giggled quietly as her hands crept to his bum and squeezed tightly. “Oh, most definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bits of the conversation in this chapter were inspired by the movie, Speed.


End file.
